17. Winter weather in Austin is something to be thankful for. I grew up in a lot of snow. Multiple feet of snow. We loved it. But I’ve grown to really deeply appreciate this kind of winter, too. Perfect running weather. Perfect jump-on-the-tramp weather. Perfect chilly-in-the-morning and gorgeous-by-noon weather. Grab-a-sweatshirt-and-that’ll-do-it weather. Thankful for that…

18. We got lucky in the neighbor department. Our street is full of little kids, but also retirees and widows, single folks, empty nesters. And we all mix and mingle — often actually in the street. And there is a flow of loaners and hand-me-downs, favors and stories. Everyone genuinely likes each other, and likes each other’s pets (even our maladjusted second cat), and likes each other Christmas lights. It’s a great comfort to know that so many people in one small little block have your back.

19. I am grateful for good books. Currently, Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom, but I couldn’t even begin to narrow the list of the zillion-and-one reading pleasures I’ve experienced in my life — on my own, shared with my mom and dad when I was a kid, and shared with my own kids now. (Currently, Charles and Emma by Deborah Heiligman). OK, so I fall asleep with my face in the pages sometimes, but the authors shouldn’t take it personally. There are days when a good book is the high point. Heck, there are days when a good book is the WHOLE point…

20. And since gal cannot live on books alone, I am deeply grateful to my children for being my technology gurus, even if they do download annoying ringtones, wallpapers and inappropriate bodily function apps. The crazy laughter diffuses my mood and prevents me from hurling phones and laptops off a bridge. Thanks, girls 🙂

Happy Monday, friends…

Confession.
While feeling profoundly grateful every day for a zillion and thirteen things, I totally dropped the blogging ball this week.
Sorry. And thank you.

Scurrying to make up for lost time, here are some of the things I’ve been thinking about…

12. It can be kind of a pain in the arse to be a grown up sometimes (see: bills, laundry, car maintenance) but really, I’m grateful for the free will that comes along with it (not to be confused with actual control over life — I’m not that delusional). Most days I actually like making up the structure of my own day, deciding what to work on and what to let simmer. I like taking an hour out of my work day to do yoga with the 4th graders, to meet another writer for coffee, to talk to my sister on the phone. I’m grateful for all of this freedom, and I’m grateful for my work and my husband, the two-fer combo that together make my daily life self-determined and pretty swell.

13. I did my last school visit of the calendar year this week and oh, I am so grateful for school visits. There is the fact that they serve as a supplement to a highly erratic and unpredictable writer’s income, but honestly (and I’m not being all starry-eyed simpleton here) I just love the kids. They are so eager. And earnest. And funny. And I have never visited a school and not been told, often in hushed tones, "Miss? I am an author, too." I come home very, very tired but exhilarated and inspired, too. 

14. I love vacation. I love when my kids are on vacation. I love not setting alarms. I love not packing lunches. I love letting everyone stay up a little too late. I love days that are loosey-goosey and either fly by or seem to go on forever (in a good way). I am grateful for weekends and holidays and the academic calendar. Very grateful.

15. I’m still kind of slack-jaw-grateful at how my book, All the World, has been received by parents and teachers and librarians and kids everywhere. In the last couple of weeks alone, I’ve heard from a principal in Massachusetts whose school is using All the World for a school-wide bookclub, a librarian in Michigan whose library system is using it for a city reading event, and countless friends and cousins and strangers who are reading the bilingual version while eating their Cheerios. We never know, when we write this or that, what will happen to those words when we put them out there. Mine were paired with the most exquisite art I’ve ever seen and tended to by a brilliant editor and just really, really warmly received. And I’m grateful.

16. And I’m also grateful for National Novel Writing Month — not because I got an entire novel written (I didn’t) or because I love what I did write (I don’t) but because it shook me way up and I wrote out of my (little tiny) box and I need a little of that every now and again. I wish I had it in me to shake myself up but I’m a fan of routine. I like actual ruts, if the truth be told. So I’m grateful for deadlines, for a little external pressure, for NaNo — for keeping me on my toes and wide awake.

That’s all for now my friends.
Namaste…

I’m grateful all the way down to my toes for the writers who read my work when it’s still bare and bumbling, for the writers who buoy me up when i’m ready to pack it in, for the writers who inspire me through their own work. (Ok, so sometimes I’m not so much inspired as shamed into carrying on, but who cares???!)

Back at it…

At our house, we don’t have to cook on Monday or Wednesday nights.
Those are Dinner Co-op nights, which means that at around 6 pm, the doorbell rings and — ta da — there’s dinner.
Hot, delicious and ready for the table.
(We return the favor on Thursday nights.)

I’m grateful for Dinner Co-op.
It cuts down on the weekly grocery bills.
it cuts down on the after dinner dishes.
And it cuts down, slightly, on the beans and tortillas we’re likely to consume in any given week. 

But more importantly, it says, in a really tangible way, that we are still tribal — even in 2010 — that we are still family — even if we’re technically not — and that it takes a village — even in a city. 

For all of that, I’m so grateful…

This weekend was just full of holiday stuff, for which I’m a total sucker.

Tonight, I’m grateful for holiday rituals and traditions:

The sing-along up at school, complete with nearly 500 luminarias, each one hand-cut by a chlld.

The funny little Charley Brown Christmas tree in our living room, bedecked with bells from my godmother, needlepoint stockings from my mom, decorated toilet paper rolls from the girls when they were small.

The stack of holiday picture books in my living room, from The Night Before Christmas to The Grinch, from Santa Knows to Stopping by Woods, from Polar Express to The World’s Number One Toy Expert.

The creche set that was my grandmother’s.

The Christmas music — from Johnny Cash to Johnny Clegg. Amahl and the Night Visitors. Jingle Bells. Joy to the World.

The cookies we rolled and cut and frosted and ate after dinner tonight.
Yum. 
And fun. 
I’m totally and completely grateful.

Some of the people I’m most grateful for in the whole world are my children’s teachers. 

Their pre-school teachers who plunged their hands into clay, muck and mud… who got down on the floor with them to build, hide and roll… who wrote down the funny and brilliant things that they said… who taught them to sing Happy Birthday in Spanish and say thank you in Hebrew and yell Yes! in Dutch.

Their elementary school teachers who taught them (and are teaching one still) to read… to work it out… to explore and experiment. Who have gotten to know them as people… who keep learning real, who keep it challenging, who keep it fun. Who have plans and who go with the flow, who are calm and smart and loving and thoughtful. Who let them use blocks and magnets and bubbles and salt clay and poster board and ipads and their brains and their imaginations.

The middle school teachers who challenge and support, who dare and inquire, who expect and appreciate. Who are teaching that the world is a big place with a lot of people whom we should know a lot about. Who are teaching that a school is a big place with a lot of people who should learn to live and work together. Who believe that learning should be wild and imaginative and intuitive and expansive and fun.

Their piano and violin teachers who have helped developed their ears and their fingers and their sensibilities, attuned now for beauty, for melody and harmony, for rhythm and resonance. 

Their coaches who have helped them stretch and strengthen and compete and cooperate and learn to live in and love their bodily selves.

Their babysitters who taught them how to hold their sleeves when slipping an arm into a jacket, their camp counselors who taught them to sing and to be brave, the women and men who’ve taught them how to paint and how to sew and how to play with improv, the ones who’ve taught them how to sit on the high back of a horse and be happy there… 

For all of these people I am grateful. 
My daughters are richer, safer, fuller, more knowledgeable, more inspired and more confident girls because of this wild web of people who’ve been in our lives.

All the children in the world need teachers.
Actually, all the people in the world need teachers — long past childhood.
Lucky are we to have so many, in all these hats and coats.
Grateful.

Mrs. Krikorian

BY SHARON OLDS

She saved me. When I arrived in 6th grade,
a known criminal, the new teacher
asked me to stay after school the first day, she said
I’ve heard about you. She was a tall woman,
with a deep crevice between her breasts,
and a large, calm nose. She said,
This is a special library pass.
As soon as you finish your hour’s work—
that hour’s work that took ten minutes
and then the devil glanced into the room
and found me empty, a house standing open—
you can go to the library. Every hour
I’d zip through the work in a dash and slip out of my
seat as if out of God’s side and sail
down to the library, solo through the empty
powerful halls, flash my pass
and stroll over to the dictionary
to look up the most interesting word
I knew, spank, dipping two fingers
into the jar of library paste to
suck that tart mucilage as I
came to the page with the cocker spaniel’s
silks curling up like the fine steam of the body.

(Read the rest here…)

Yesterday I watched Suzan-Lori Parks work. 
The playwright sat at a table at the front of the room and she wrote.
For an hour.
On a red typewriter.

She had both water and coffee.
And some peppermints.
A few books.

Once, she stopped to check and send a text.
She took off her sweater.
She typed.

And so did I.
Because that was part of the "performance".
The audience was invited to do our own work. 
We spread out at desks and tables with journals and laptops and we wrote.

I was revising a picture book text.
A text I have written and revised and written and revised for many years now.
I can’t say the number because it horrifies me.
I have rejoiced over and cursed this text.
I have quit and restarted it.
I have had high hopes and no hope.

And yet, there I was yesterday, just working away on an ordinary Thursday, sippin’ coffee and hangin’ with Suzan-Lori Parks. I felt calm and, also, energized. I felt comforted to know that other people were working away, too, and occasionally sneaking a peppermint or a text to a friend. I felt bound to the timer at the end of the hour, knowing I wouldn’t quit before then — and wanting to work well afterwards.

So today I’m grateful for process.
I’m actually grateful that books don’t come out, all of piece, in our dreams. 
I’m grateful for the opportunity to revisit, to grow, to change.
I’m grateful for tables and timers, for new ideas and old stubborn ones.
I’m grateful for the examples of both inspiration and tenacity that remind me to sit down and open myself up to whatever comes out on the page today. 
I’m grateful.

Last night marked my last night of teaching for the semester.
And you know how it is this time of year.
I’m tempted to say, "I’m grateful for the academic calendar. For winter break. For fresh starts."
And that’d all be true, but it’s kind of tired-sounding.

The truth is, I’m also glad for the opportunity to teach. 
I’m grateful for my college and my classes and my students.
I’m grateful for the chance to share the work that I love with other people, to talk about and practice the craft with them, to witness both their glee and their struggles as they take to the page.

Each time I share a stack of library books with my students, I learn anew.
Each time I try to articulate how something can be done or why it might work, I learn anew.
Each time I critique a student’s story, I learn anew.

Teaching is good for me, as a writer and a person, and I’m grateful that I get the chance to do it.
And, yep, I’m grateful for winter break, too.

I am grateful for my running partners, without whom I would not be able to drag myself out of bed on cold, dark mornings and with whom I stretch, breathe, laugh, cry, sort out, burn off, ponder, pound and start my days off right. 

I am thankful for family dinners.

I am thankful that my grandparents — all four of them — held family dinners at their houses.
And that they passed them down, so that my mom and dad loved them and instituted them at our house, too.

(I almost said they "believed in them," but honestly, it was more deeply ingrained than that. it was just what was done.)

Not that I never resented being asked to come to the table and sit and make conversation and let the phone ring and ring and help clear and rinse and stack and all of that. I did. I was 13. And 14. And 15.

But mostly (and I swear this is not rose-colored glasses) I remember teasing and laughing and looking up words in the dictionary and events in the Encyclopedia. I remember telling long detailed stories about math class and the 3rd grade guinea pig. I remember running lines for the school play. I remember trying, for the first time, artichokes and fondue and gazpacho. I remember making placecards and coming up with wild new ways to fold napkins. I remember playing telephone and 20 questions and pig. 

And now, thank goodness, I have my own family who are more than happy to circle ’round every single night — whether we’re eating rice & beans or something more refined — to share tales from the trenches, to poke a little fun at one another, to try to understand everything from weather phenomena to Wikileaks. Sometimes it’s long and leisurely, other times someone nearly falls asleep at the table, or gets up to play piano or demonstrate a crazy playground move.

But regardless of context or even of content, the family dinner always serves as a centerpoint — a pulling in on the threads of a button so that it holds tight to the coat, a thing of both beauty and function, of comfort, of something we all can count on…